


Dodging Ghosts

by enviropony



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fix-It, M/M, Memories, Reunions, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 13:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22711924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enviropony/pseuds/enviropony
Summary: Thomas lies awake long into the night, replaying that ground-eating stride in his head, musing over those broad shoulders, wondering how they would flex and shiver under his hands.He thinks he should feel like he's betraying James, but he doesn't.His fantasies give him the sense that he's coming home.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton
Comments: 10
Kudos: 91
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Dodging Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [violet_strange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/violet_strange/gifts).



It's after sunrise, but not so late yet that the beach is crawling. Pirates are by nature a self-indulgent lot, and most of them sleep in of a morning--some until the sun is past its daily zenith.

James does not sleep in, an early riser even before the navy burned its regimented routine into his mind. At sunrise he walks down to the water, watches the fiery slash of light on the horizon grow until it begins to hurt his eyes. He explores the surf line, eyes roving over the shells and pebbles that roll in and out with every wave. Sometimes, if he sees something especially unique, he snags it up and saves it for Miranda.

That's been happening less and less over the years.

The sea breeze is particularly chilly today. James, shivering, turns his gaze from the pale, wet sand at his feet to the clustered encampments on the beach; his coat is waiting in his tent, along with his responsibilities. He gives the shoreline one final glance, and his breath catches, because in the distance, heading back into town--

The man's hair is the palest gold, scruffy and windblown even as short as it is. He is tall, thin but not willowy; his movements seem stiff, as if impeded by old injury. His stride is even, though, measured and sure. He walks with purpose, and James' thoughts snag on a memory... Thomas, attracted by something unusual, moving to investigate with stately confidence. 

By the time time James comes back to himself, the man is gone.

\- - - 

Thomas peers out into the gloom, careful to keep still so he doesn't attract the attention of the men in the street below. He's mostly hidden behind a half-closed shutter, and his lamp is long extinguished, and yet... He'd seen a man kill another with a knife thrown at twenty pace a few weeks prior. It's farther than that to where the crowd is roiling, but caution seems prudent when one is spying on pirates.

The argument, from what he can tell, stems from who has a right to what percentage of a recent prize. One crew had gathered the intelligence and harried the fat merchant into shoal waters. Another, smaller crew, equipped with a vessel of a shallower draft, had actually taken the prize. The captains had come to an agreement but not put it to a vote--they'd simply tasked their quartermasters with distributing the prize money as decided. This is, as Thomas understands it, Not Done among pirate crews. A vote must be taken on nearly all things; a pirate ship's captain is not god upon the earth, but the chosen mayor of a capricious floating village. He may, at any given time, be un-chosen. 

One of the captains in question now lies slumped in a doorway, blood densely black against the paleness of his shirt. The other is still pleading his case, a few supporters standing between him and the angry mass of men clogging the street.

From the left there is a ripple of confusion, and a growled order. The raised voices of the two crews dissipate into susurrant whispers. 

"Flint. It's Flint."

Like a school of fish the crowd parts, flowing backwards, forwards, into nooks and alleys, anywhere to get away from the sharks of the _Walrus_ crew.

They move as one unit, a stout, dauntless figure in the lead, the bald pate of Hal Gates a pale blotch on the man's left; the shadow of sharp, wiry Randall hovers on the right, pace by the forms of the twin giants Joji and Wee Billy. Other men trail behind, nameless to Thomas, but unquestionably part of Captain Flint's storied crew.

Flint spares only a single glance at the bloodied body; his steps do not falter. He continues on, and his crew with him. Thomas hears Gates throw out a derisive comment, but that is all. The _Walrus_ crew passes out of sight; the scattered crowd reforms, subdued and tentative.

The mood is broken. A short exchange elicits a promise to recalculate the earnings, and the men begin to disperse. No one bothers to move the body.

Thomas lies awake long into the night, replaying that ground-eating stride in his head, musing over those broad shoulders, wondering how they would flex and shiver under his hands.

He thinks he should feel like he's betraying James, but he doesn't. 

His fantasies give him the sense that he's coming home.

\- - - 

James sees Thomas everywhere he goes, some days. There's a hint of him in Pastor Lambrick's proudly straight back, casting a gimlet eye upon the house as his wagon trundles by. The Manderly boy recalls him every time James catches sight of a book in those broad hands. The scratch of quill on paper as Randall marks down new provisions sends James back to cozy evenings in the library, heads bent close, fingers trailing over letters, over pale knuckles and fine lace and the hot skin of a throat. 

James sees Thomas now, in the hunched form that darts from building to building to avoid the drenching rain. It doesn't bring up a memory, but the familiarity of the man's long limbs makes him pause at the tavern door where the prospect of getting soaked didn't.

"In or out!" Young Eleanor declares, coming up behind him. "What are you doing, letting my floor get ruined?"

James grunts, and shuts the door. "You are something, Miss Guthrie. I forgot to ask, does Mr. Scott have any news on the _Sparrow_?"

"She won't be carrying anything you want to bother with," Eleanor says. "The contract has indeed gone to another company. Word is that the _Sparrow's_ new destination is Sherbro."

A slaving port. Fuck them. And fuck his worthless contacts. "Thank you, Miss Guthrie."

James opens the door again, and sets forth into the rain.

He sees nothing of Thomas out here now.

\- - - 

Mr. Scott is holding court at the Guthrie warehouse this week, conducting the intricate dance of trade that is particular to pirate-held ports throughout the Caribbean. Thomas has yet to digest the details of the operation, and to be frank he doesn't care to. He accompanies the goods and ledgers from a number of inland estates down to the warehouse, oversees the counting, the loading and the receipts; he returns the ledgers, along with a fat purse, at the end of each day. A handful of burly guards accompany him in each direction, because Thomas maybe be tolerable with a sword, but he is no true fighter, and moreover he isn't willing to lay down his life for goods or money, especially that produce through the labor of slaves. 

Still, one must eat and keep a roof over one's head. Thomas has become well-known for his meticulous record-keeping and his services come highly-recommended, so he goes even to those horrid plantations.

Mr. Scott shows him the calculations for the Underhill sugarcane. "Please look these over. I need to go speak to Captain Flint."

Thomas looks around, eager to get a glimpse of Nassau's most profitable captain, but Mr. Scott is heading to the makeshift office, which is separated off with rickety privacy screens. Captain Flint must already be within, because a deep, velvety voice greets Mr. Scott as he disappears from Thomas's view.

Thomas is immediately unconcerned with Mr. Scott--that voice sends a shiver of familiarity up his spine. He cannot make out what is said, but the rise and fall of it, the timbre and the pitch, they slip over his skin and resonate in his bones. He stands perfectly still, lost in the phantom sensations of shared breath and murmurs against his lips; he remembers the rumble of laughter within the chest pressed up against his back. The warmth and joy of those long-ago days suffuses him, even as grief and loss rise up and spill like trickling spring-water down his cheeks. 

It is perhaps a few minutes before the conversation ends, Thomas will say when he looks back later, but now it feels like hours, flowing through him like ocean currents, silent and deep. 

Boots tread heavy on the wooden floor, breaking Thomas from his trance.

Captain Flint has gone, leaving echoes of a man long dead.

\- - -

The _Mary Stewart's_ crew is brawling in the street again, blocking James' path to the livery. The _Walrus_ is unloaded and solidly anchored, his own crew are whoring and drinking away their recent earnings--everything James is responsible for in Nassau is as settled as it's going to be. James just wants to go home, for Christ's sake. He wants to sleep for two days, wake up to Miranda's voice reciting from the Song of Songs, or whatever the mood's struck her for this month. He wants to eat her cooking, help her repair the fence, take her to bed and let her forget that he's left her behind, and will again soon. 

He's just passed the Pissers' Alley, which lets out near the livery, so James backtracks as he digs some coins out of his pack. It is worth it to walk in peace for just a few minutes. There's nothing unsavory about the narrow path, despite its name. Nassau in general simply detests when something is denied it, so those who'd banded together to protect themselves had been deemed selfish pissers, and the name had stuck.

The guards eye James with something akin to trepidation when he approaches, but give him the same lecture they give everyone else as they pocket his coins. "No fighting, no stealing, no raping, no killing. If you're not here to visit, don't linger. Residents and guests only after sunset."

James glares impatiently, and the gate swings open for him. 

The sun is low in the sky so it's dim within, the building all two or three stories high and built cheek-to-jowl. James shifts his pack to a more comfortable position and strides forward, pointedly ignoring everyone he sees. They gladly ignore him in turn.

There's a choke point halfway up the alley, where there's no room to dawdle, but a man is strolling along just there, nose stuck in a book. James registers the tall, lean body and the pale hair, remembering a day on the beach some months back, and many days in a stately old London house, too too long ago. 

It's his imagination acting up again, of course. James sets his jaw, hurries his step and makes to squeeze by, but his pack bumps the man on the shoulder. 

"Pardon me," the man says without looking up. James looks back out of polite instinct, while at the same time his blood turns icy in his veins. 

He knows that voice.

He knows that face.

"Thomas?"

\- - -

There is an alley near Thomas' rooms--he can afford a whole story to himself now, at the top of Mrs. Postlethwaite's boarding house--that he uses to avoid the rowdy, crowded main street. It is darker here, and the walk from Mr. Broderick's offices takes longer, but it is safer than most places in Nassau. Sometimes the company is surprising, though. Thomas has run into prostitutes, trysting lovers, children playing odd, secret games, and once an intrepid soul sounding out the words in a book of Spanish poems. 

The secret to the winding alley is that it only has one entrance and one exit, and the people whose dwellings open onto it have banded together to hire dependable guards. For a nominal fee and with a stern lecture to keep the peace, anyone may pass through. Thomas pays a monthly toll and enjoys a peaceful transit between work and home. 

He's ambling along late in the afternoon, head in a book, struggling to read in the weak light but engrossed in the tale, when someone bumps rather hard into his shoulder. 

The alley is narrow here, barely room for two men to walk abreast, so Thomas assumes it wasn't intentional. "Pardon me," he says, and carries on.

Or tries to. 

"Thomas?"

He's back in the warehouse, back in his library, back in his bedroom with James' voice in his ear. Thomas looks up sharply, breath catching in his throat.

It's James. 

The book tumbles from slack fingers as Thomas stares, and James stares back.

He's older, of course. Older, worn, haggard and filthy. His hair is pulled back into a harsh queue, dark with dirt and old sweat. A well-cut coat of black wool covers a stained shirt; his trousers, so tight across his thighs, are equally stained. His boots are scuffed and dusty from the road.

He's the most beautiful thing Thomas has seen in years. 

"James," he says, but his voice stutters and dies in his throat. "James," he tries again, a whisper only. "My dear James."

The pack slips off James' shoulder as he steps forward. "Thomas. How?" He reaches out, tentative, mouth slack in disbelief. "Thomas."

Thomas reaches back, grasp his hand and pulls him in. James stumbles, grabbing at Thomas' hip to catch himself. Thomas lets go of his hand to take gentle hold of James' jaw, thumbs stroking his cheeks. James's blue eyes are wide and startled, and such a welcome sight.

"This is a miracle, I think," Thomas whispers. "And I'd only just reconciled myself to atheism."

James's face goes complicated, emotions changing like partners passed on at a _contredance_. Finally he says, with a quirk of his lips, "Well, you're in good company." His voice is low, and that velvety rumble Thomas missed so much reaches into his very heart. He shivers, leans close; James meets him halfway. Their foreheads touching, Thomas presses closer still, slips his hands down James' neck, to his chest and around his back. James grips Thomas' waist, flingers digging in enough to leave bruises. Thomas revels in it. They share breath for long moments, both disbelieving, neither quite daring to go further, but Thomas can't, won't wait anymore. He tilts his head, lips brushing James'. James exhales, short and sharp, before his mouth is on Thomas', licking in, devouring. His tongue slides against Thomas', and Thomas' hips stutter. James growls, sets one foot between Thomas' legs so they are pressed together hard from thigh to chest, trying to crawl into each other's skin as they kiss.

It's heady, all-encompassing, and over far too soon. Thomas breaks away, gasping for breath. James shifts his arms and hugs Thomas to him tightly, harsh sobs gusting suddenly into Thomas' hair. Thomas tries to soothe him, but his own throat is dry, and tears are welling in his eyes.

They stand there for a brief eternity, crying, then laughing, then crying again, never letting go. 

Many long minutes later, James whispers in his ear, "You know who else would really like to see you?" and Thomas gasps out a laugh as his heart soars.

Miranda.

He's home, he's home, and everything going to be okay.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Pissers' Alley is completely made up, but why the hell not?


End file.
